


but i miss you most of all (when autumn leaves start to fall)

by Cazio



Series: Concatenation [9]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Graphic descriptions, M/M, Stony - Freeform, Superfamily (Marvel), Superhusbands (Marvel), also just death in general, character deaths (of natural causes)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 14:11:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3293312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cazio/pseuds/Cazio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enduring a life without aging meant flipping though friends like playing cards. Some were old and worn, most destroyed, and others gleamed from fresh gloss and fresh ink. The prospect of losing any of them was almost too much to bear, but they got lost all the same. At some point it was easier just to stuff the box in an attic and forget they even existed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but i miss you most of all (when autumn leaves start to fall)

**Author's Note:**

> SUPER HUGE THANKS to shae for editing this and being so amazing!!!
> 
> my story notes/responses to major comment points are at the end! as always, thank you for reading!
> 
> NOTE: **please look at the tags!** people always get angry at me for not tagging deaths the way they want me to so here is your warning that **THERE IS DEATH IN THIS INSTALLMENT.** that is all i'll say. if that's going to upset you/trigger you in any way, please don't read. i just really hate spoiling deaths, so please prepare yourself accordingly.
> 
>   
> _"The falling leaves drift by my window,_   
> _The falling leaves of red and gold,_   
> _I see your lips, the summer kisses,_   
> _The sunburned hands I used to hold,_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Since you went away the days grow long,_  
>  _And soon I'll hear old winter's song,_  
>  _But I miss you most of all, my darling,_  
>  _When autumn leaves start to fall."_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \- Autumn Leaves, Doris Day 

A low rumble of thunder bellowed through the penthouse, rattling the priceless paintings on the walls. Steve wasn’t overly fond of storms, but he did appreciate the beauty of them. Right now, though, he was tempted to call in a favor from Thor to send the light and noises away.

Peter whimpered against his chest, his tiny, peach-fuzz brows creased in concern as his conscious fought to wake him. Steve had him tucked into a ridiculously oversized sweatshirt, both of them sharing the collar.

Tony was worried about him, Steve knew. Worried about how he had to be the one taking care of Peter at all times, only reluctantly allowing Tony to do it when he was just too tired or too busy. Steve constantly had Peter in his arms, to the point that even he knew it was a bit ridiculous. But he couldn’t let go. Peter only had so many days left as their new little baby.

Sharp little fingernails plucked at his collarbone as Peter shifted again, but Steve didn’t mind. The pediatrician said that skin-to-skin contact was the best way to foster a bond. It was too cold for Peter to be without his footie pajamas, but he had his puffy cheeks pressed against Steve’s chest, which was close enough.

Another crack of thunder caused Peter to flinch and Steve instinctively tensed to defend him from harm.

“It’s okay, Petey,” he murmured into the soft fuzz on Peter’s head. “Papa’s right here. Papa’s got you. Papa’s got you.”

A shiver of unease ran down his spine. He glanced at the stove clock. Three.

She wouldn’t call at three.

Even so, he gripped Peter a little tighter to his chest.

“Daddy and I love you,” Steve told his little son. “You’re ours. You’re my Petey, not hers. You’re my Petey.”

Candice had almost kept him. Stolen him. She had made the mistake of mentioning that maybe she did want children and Steve had nearly thrown up he had gotten so scared. They had been waiting nine months for a son, over a year in total including planning and finding a surrogate. And Candice had dared to say she wasn’t sure.

Thank God Peter was actually Tony’s son. Tony’s lawyers had lunged, sticking Candice with so many legal threats and talk of repayment for all that he and Tony had invested in her that Candice had no choice but to hand her— _their_ —son over.

But Tony had warned Steve that she did have rights. Even though the surrogacy agreement had been meticulously planned, Peter was still her child. Tony would most likely win in court with his lawyers, but there was a chance he wouldn’t. A chance Peter could be taken away from them if his mother wanted him back.

Steve gently kissed Peter’s head. “No one’s taking you away from me,” he whispered.

He knew Candice had a legal right to her baby, but Steve wasn’t sure what he would do if she took Peter. Probably something bad.  Nobody was going to touch his son. If Candice tried to take him and raise him, Steve was pretty sure he would kidnap him and take him back. He didn’t care if it was illegal. Peter was his son.

Lightning flashed and Peter groaned, squirming on his chest to try to avoid the light. Steve shushed him gently, swaying side to side and turning his back to the window to try to shield Peter from the storm.

“I can blacken the windows, sir,” JARVIS suggested.

“Oh, that’s okay,” Steve said with a shake of his head. “We’re fine.”

It was only a little bit unnerving knowing he was being watched all the time, but he never asked Tony to have JARVIS turn off or stay quiet or whatever it would be. JARVIS protected them and kept watch over Peter better than any guard dog or human being ever could.  “We’re just fine, aren’t we, Pete?”

He secured Peter with one hand and lifted the other to thumb at his son’s chubby cheek, smiling fondly. Peter was turning into quite the chubmonster. He still had the gangly baby limbs, but his cheeks puffed and his belly was round and Steve knew that pretty soon he was going to have sausage link arms and legs.

“Thought you might be in here.”

Steve turned to see Tony dressed in sweats and a loose shirt, crossing through the open-air kitchen and into the living room with him.

“Hey, Tones,” Steve greeted. “The storm woke him up.”

“Oh my god, look at those cheeks,” Tony whispered, lifting a hand to gently trace over Peter’s cheeks with a finger.

“He’s just getting cuter,” Steve agreed. He gently knocked Tony with his hip. “Get everything done?”

Tony shook his head with a yawn.

Fatherhood had already started beating out his time in the lab. Steve smiled. That tiredness was unbelievably endearing.

“Couldn’t keep my eyes open,” Tony said once he was done yawning. “Figured I’d come up here and drag you off to bed if you weren’t already there.”

Steve didn’t want to put Peter down in his crib again, but he knew that was the best choice. The storm was going to end soon and if he hoped to be at all productive tomorrow, he needed at least four hours of rest.

“M’kay. I’ll put the chubmuffin to bed,” Steve said, kissing Peter’s hair again. His skin smelled so…warm. That baby smell was always calming, but knowing this baby was his son made it that much more effective for Steve.

It didn’t take long to get Peter down. He woke up for a few moments to scowl, but one lullaby had him conked out in no time. Steve had JARVIS black out the windows and he turned on Peter’s heartbeat bear, though the bear was attached to the crib, not in it (Steve was terrified of increasing any sort of risk for SIDS). With a final kiss, Steve clicked the crib gate back into place and stepped out of the nursery where Tony was waiting for him.

Warm hands slipped under his shirt and Steve could only grin before he met Tony’s lips for a long kiss.

“You waited for me,” Steve murmured, lifting a hand to gently thumb Tony’s cheekbone.

“’Course I did,” Tony replied with a sly smile.

Steve kissed him again, sliding his hand back to run his fingers through Tony’s hair. Sometimes he forgot how perfect Tony was. He knew Steve was too attached to Peter, but never brought it up when Steve wasn’t ready. They had talked about it a few times, and even saw someone about it just a few weeks ago. That doctor said it was normal, to wait a month or so and see what happened.

Tony knew he only doted on Peter because he loved him so much. Even Steve knew it was because he needed a connection, he craved a relationship with his baby that would be equal to Tony’s.

“I love you,” Steve said as their lips parted.

“I know,” Tony replied, lovingly scratching Steve’s sides beneath his sweatshirt.

These were the moments Steve knew he would never forget. Quiet moments in their penthouse, the silence only broken by the noise of the city all around them, so far away. The faint scent of Tony’s cologne, of whatever metal he was working with in the lab. The sensation of Tony’s breath on his neck and the brown eyes looking him over in the darkness.

“You’re thinking,” Tony mused, slipping his hand around to Steve’s back, pulling him closer.

Steve chuckled. “I’m thinking about how lucky I am.”

He had never trusted another person more. Not even Bucky. He had trusted Bucky with all of his secrets and they had been best friends, but with Tony it was so much more. Steve didn’t just trust him, he knew him. That was the only way he could think to describe it. His confidence in Tony was so strong that whenever they worked together on something, Steve knew with full certainty that they would succeed. When he couldn’t think, Tony thought for him. They filled each other’s holes. More than that, they built each other up so that even when they were separated, they weren’t any weaker. Tony made him stronger than he had ever been and Steve knew he did the same for his husband.

He really had loved Peggy Carter—with all of his heart—but sometimes he was secretly so relieved he had never gotten the chance to marry her because life with Tony was so much more than he ever thought a marriage could be.

“You’re making me drowsy,” Tony murmured, resting his head on Steve’s chest where Peter’s little body had been only minutes before.

“Me thinking makes you drowsy?” Steve teased, kissing Tony’s hair and looping his arms around him.

“Yeah, when you start thinking all gushy it makes me start thinking all gushy and that always makes me think about being in bed with you and snuggling up to you and—“

Steve laughed quietly. “I get it, I get it.”

Tony nuzzled against him, his arc reactor glowing between them as a constant reminder that they both weren’t completely human.

“How was everything today?” Steve asked, tucking his head against Tony’s to kiss his cheek. “Everything good?”

“Mhmm. Finished a new suit this morning, and I’m cooking up another one to start on when I can think straight again.” He paused. “Mm, and Rhodey says hi. We went to lunch.”

Steve was glad that Tony had been out and about. Sometimes he stayed in the lab all day and never left--and those nights were usually full of night terrors. But things had really been getting better. Peter had been a huge help, even after the boost of Tony getting sober two years ago and Steve officially moving in after their marriage (he was old-fashioned, always would be).

“Let’s go to bed,” Steve said after a moment. He realized after he said it that he hadn’t replied to Tony, but he was just that tired.

“Mm” was Tony’s only reply before they were sleepily wandering into the master bedroom.

There was nothing quite like being home, in bed with his husband. In their bed. Steve crawled into the warm embrace of their blankets and didn’t even bother to take off his sweatshirt. Tony kicked off his shoes and slipped in beside him, fitting snug against his chest. Steve looped an arm around his husband to keep him close and gave a lazy smile when Tony tipped his head up.

“Peter loves you,” Tony murmured.

Steve chuckled, his eyes closed. “I know he does, Tones.”

“I know. But he’s going to grow up and that’s still not gonna change.”

Tony’s hand rested against his cheek and Steve turned his head to press a kiss to Tony’s wrist.

His smile faded a little.

“Don’t let Candice take him away from us,” Steve whispered, his eyes fluttering open.

Tony was staring up at him, brow furrowed. A moment later he propped himself up on an elbow. “What? She’s not—God, baby, no.” He cupped Steve face in his hand. “She’s not taking him. She’s not.”

Steve looked away. “She could change her mind. It’s not—“

Tony kissed him gently, stopping his speech. “If she changes her mind, we have to go to court. And there’s no way in hell she’s got enough money to beat us, Steve.”

Steve knew it was true, but it didn’t ease his fears. He wasn’t sure when they would ever leave. _If_ they ever would.

Tony’s lips feathered along his brow, then pressed to his cheekbones, his jaw. “I’m right here, Peter’s right here. That’s where we’ll always be.”

Steve put on a weak smile and turned his head to capture Tony’s lips with his own. He didn’t feel much better about the situation with Candice, but he trusted Tony. Tony would protect their family in all of the ways Steve couldn’t.

They found a gentle rhythm so that Steve could lazily explore all of Tony’s tastes without needing to open his eyes or lift his head much. Married kisses. Parenthood kisses. So tired but so full of love. Steve would never tire of the life they had created together, and even when Tony was gone longer than expected or too busy to spend much time with him, he knew Tony’s love would never fail. He knew whenever Tony did come home, he would make sure Steve knew how much he had missed him and how much he loathed that they had been apart.

“Mm,” Steve finally murmured after a few minutes. “Can’t keep m’eyes open.”

Tony was settled on his chest, but he rolled off. They had learned long ago that Tony woke up with pain from his arc reactor if he slept like that.

“Me too,” Tony said.

Steve scrunched his nose when Tony kissed his cheek, shivering at the warm wash of breath over his ear. Tony snuggled close again, draping an arm over him, and Steve turned his head to breath in the scent of Tony’s shampoo.

“Love you,” Steve slurred.

“Love you more,” Tony replied sleepily.

He wouldn’t give up this life for anything. He had everything he had ever wanted. More than everything he had ever wanted. He had Tony and he had Peter, their son. They both loved him. Nothing would ever change that.

Steve moved his hand up to his chest, lacing his fingers with Tony’s. He wanted to kiss each knuckle, run his lips along the callouses Tony had built up from years working and inventing. But he was too tired, so he just gave Tony’s hand another squeeze.

Just before he dropped off to sleep, a little squeeze came back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Tony Stark died on November 4th, 2056.

The day was bitterly cold and the sky untouched by clouds. Quiet.

At least, that was how Steve remembered it, but he hadn’t really been paying attention on that Saturday. Maybe it was actually rainy and miserable, but he couldn’t say for sure. He had been in too many countries too many times during that week.

But when a letter arrived to his room sent in a thick, tied-shut envelope from New York, he knew Tony was gone.

The paper fibers underneath his calloused fingers were soft and worn as he pulled the documents from the envelope. There was a magazine with a tribute to all of Tony’s accomplishments, pictures of his life, including a few pages detailing the trying marriage of two superheroes.

He felt a little empty. Because as much as Steve wouldn’t allow himself to admit it, a part of him had left with Tony.  

They had never repaired things. They hadn’t even tried. Steve visited Tony only once after Peter’s wedding, and that was just a few years ago to discuss a change to Tony’s will.

It was always hard seeing the people he loved grow old. In Steve’s heart, they were always young, glowing with youth and brimming with happiness. When he thought of Tony, he still saw his wrinkle-eyed smile, his dark hair, his twinkling eyes. But that day Tony’s hair had been all grey, his eyes tired, and his smiles gone.

Tony never asked why Steve wasn’t at the wedding. He never asked why Steve had not spoken to Peter since that day. Even though they were grandparents now. Even though Steve had not met his grandchildren and one of them was already out of college.

He never wanted to meet them. He didn’t want them to know that he was anything but the monster Peter knew him to be.

_“I thought I would never want to leave,”_ Tony had said, his voice leathery and strange. _“But I want to leave now.”_

A sealed envelope fell from the magazine, and Steve recognized Tony’s handwriting. Judging from how clean the lines were, it had been written years ago, when Tony’s hands didn’t quiver.

Steve stared at the letters, tracing the indentations the pen had made on that paper. His heart ached terribly in his chest, wringing itself over and over as he fought with himself about whether or not to open the envelope and read what was inside.

He wondered if Jackson had ever read it. Probably not, since Jackson had stuck it into the things to send.

But maybe that was just to torture him. 

The door to his room opened and Emory stepped in, his black hair fraying out from under his hat, sticking to his pink cheeks. He lifted the gun off his back and hung it at the end of their bunk before pulling off his hat and shaking out his long hair.

“Fuck it’s cold out there,” Emory hissed. “These temp controls don’t do shit.”

Steve didn’t reply, wiping the tears from his cheeks. There weren’t too many. He had gotten much better at stifling his old habits.

When he stood, he extended the letter.

Emory cocked a brow, blue eyes blinking in confusion.

“My ex husband died last month,” Steve said quietly. “Just got word. He sent me this.” He glanced at the letter. “Read it.”

Steve watched as Emory’s mind went to work, calculating the consequences this might bring about. Steve had never met someone more mentally skilled than Tony until he and Emory had been placed together.

Emory took the letter and walked over to his desk. “Want me to do it now?”

“Yes, please,” Steve said, turning back to the magazine article.

On his desk was a digital photo frame that scrolled through about a dozen pictures of his friends. Him and Bucky in the forties. Him and Bucky a month ago in London, laughing, happy. Natasha with her most recent class of ballerinas, a genuine smile on her face. She looked so strange with wrinkles--somehow Steve had just thought maybe she would never age at all.

Then a picture of Sam popped up, him and his buddies at his retirement home all wearing sunglasses and nodding to the camera. An old picture of the last time Steve had seen Clint, at a party for some charity Steve had never heard of. Clint had passed away just a few years after that. Assassinated by one of his own men.

He turned his gaze away for the next few pictures. He already knew what they were. One of Blaine fast asleep in a hammock with Pearson grinning behind him, a foghorn in hand. One of their old team, all of the guys smiling falsely, the way men did when they were at war. And another, taken by a nanodrone just before their last mission together, Blaine mock-sneering at the camera.

He woke up some nights and swore he could feel Blaine’s hand on his head, shoving him over.

He should have pulled him down or stood up or moved or _something._

Instead, he had just ducked, and he had gotten a perfect view of a .50 bullet cleaving half of Blaine’s face away.

His dreams were narrated by those seething, foamy breaths that had been Blaine’s last.

Steve heard the clink of a Zippo and looked over to Emory, who had the letter dangling between two fingers as he lit the paper on fire.

Emory caught the look of panic on Steve’s face and frowned. He shook his head.

That was all Steve needed to know.

He nodded once and dipped his head, nose prickling in warning as he thought about crying again. He clawed at his temples as the smell of burning paper began to waft around the room, tempted to call out and stop the burning, to save those last few words and keep them in his pocket where he kept Blaine’s letter, still stained with blood from when Steve had carried him home.

 

Y _ou’re the only person I’ve ever trusted more than I trust myself, and that’s not fucking fair if I don’t even get to pay back my fucking debt._

_Fuck it all to hell if I’m dead and I haven’t stopped your bleeding._

 

After Blaine was KIA, Steve had left the military world for a while. It hadn’t gone very well, and he had nearly killed Bucky several times while trying to figure out how to live again. Then he went back, deciding on contract work instead of enlistment. The military was happy to have his service, and since then he’d spent more than fifteen years fighting on and off for various armies and troops. Emory Bastinov had been his partner for three years, but he was so much younger than all of the other Special Forces men he had worked with.

Rumors were running around about how Emory had been genetically modified. Bred for war. Like some kind of dog.

Steve never said anything about it because he was pretty sure it was true. Emory had no flaws on the battlefield. He was smarter, stronger, and faster than every non-superhero Steve had ever met, and he was only twenty-four. Four years younger than the Special Forces officially allowed.

Blaine would have hated him, but Steve got along with him fine. Emory had an ego, but Steve was a master at making sure that ego didn’t show up around him. He’d married Tony Stark, after all.

Tony Stark, who was now dead and buried.

Steve wouldn’t have been able to go to the funeral even if he had been invited. He was currently at a diamond mine in Russia, ensuring that insurgents didn’t steal any more gems from the mines. In reality, it wasn’t the diamonds at stake, but the stronghold of vibranium stored two miles underground, imported from Africa and currently the most desirable material on planet earth.

Most people just thought it was about the diamonds, and the Russian and American governments wanted it to stay that way. Knowledge of the mission was on a need-to-know basis, and Emory could not have been left alone for Steve to leave for a funeral.

Receiving the news a month late was no surprise either. Snail mail was the only way to contact him now, aside from the military. Jackson probably could have gotten word to him through the comm somehow, but Steve doubted he was all that invested in Steve knowing.

Jackson didn’t pretend to like him now. Steve didn’t mind.

Furled, wrinkled ashes flaked onto the concrete floor, all traces of Tony’s last words burned away.

Steve realized he had just made a monumental decision on the spot, but he didn’t care. He knew it was for the best that he never read that letter. All it would have done was made him upset or maybe even make him want to talk to Tony, but it was much too late for that.

The flakes trembled from the heater’s breath.

“Anything I need to know?” Steve asked quietly, his eyes still glued to the ashes.

“Money added to your bank account,” Emory said.

Steve nodded. He had already known that was coming.

“Anything else?”

Emory hesitated. Then he shook his head. “That’s it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Adrenaline slicked through his blood, icing his veins and flaring his nostrils as he stared into the house. Through the dust and darkness he found his targets before sound could even penetrate his ears.

“Back away from the hostage!” Emory bellowed. “Release your weapon and back away from the hostage!”

A dog barked nearby, so loud that the house shook. Steve felt the animals’ breath on his calves and he tasted the same frenzy, the same bloodlust.

“Release the hostage!” Steve screamed. “Drop your weapon or I swear to fucking God I’ll rip you in half!”

“Dog! Dog!”

The dog shot between Steve’s legs and Steve watched as the target tensed, his attention momentarily taken from his hostage.

Steve pulled the trigger and watched stone-faced as the man’s head burst with a crack that might have been sickening for some.

Emory shot the other man with the same pinpoint accuracy just as the dog latched onto the man’s gun arm.

Steve entered the room and investigated the corners, kicked over a few sizable wooden crates, and shot a few bullets into the couch and comfy chairs.

“Clear.”

“Clear!” Emory echoed, and the rest of the team filed in.

The room was a mess, from the spoiled food sitting on the bookshelf to the torn posters on the walls.

“Hey Kissum,” Emory said with a chuckle as he grabbed the dog by the collar and hauled it from the man. “Did you know they used to feed dogs a piece of the kill to get ‘em to wanna do it again?”

The team snickered and glances flicked between the snarling dog and the dead man beneath its scrambling paws.

“Somebody get the hostage out of here,” Steve grumbled as he sifted through books for any traces of intel.

“You wanna feed my dog some human meat?” Kissum replied.  Steve could hear the grin on his lips.

A younger soldier scooped up the hostage and called two other team members for cover as he carried her out. At least, Steve assumed the hostage was a her.

“I dunno,” Emory laughed. “Would it make him only have a taste for Russian?”

The dog whined loudly, then resumed barking.

“We could find out,” Kissum said. “Huh, boy? Want some?”

The dog howled, thrashing in Kissum’s hold as it fought to get to the man.

Steve left the bookshelf and stepped on the dead man’s hand as he passed between Emory and Kissum. He only noticed when his boot slipped on the floor, the bottom slick with blood.

“Come on. Let’s get this girl back safe.”

“Rogers, always ruining all the fun,” Emory pouted.

“Sorry, boy,” Kissum said, ruffling the dog’s ears. “There’s plenty of kozels where these two came from. Next time, buddy.”

With no usable intel, they had to move on. There wasn’t much of a risk for additional enemy personnel, but they had a cleanup crew en route already and they had to get the hostage checked out.

“Gonzalez,” Steve called as they exited the room and jogged down the hall to catch up with the rest of the team. “What do we have?”

Gonzalez shrugged. “American reporter, decided to seek out Russian insurgents and—surprise—she got taken in. Must be important though, orders came from the Big House.”

Steve cocked a brow. “Huh.”

“I’d really appreciate if you could quit talking about me and take this thing off my head,” came a snappy voice from Steve’s left. The soldier holding the girl jumped. Inexperienced.

“Get the bag off her head,” Steve commanded.

For a fleeting second he thought it was Jane Foster in the soldier’s arms. She had the same brown hair, but her lips were fuller, like Natasha’s. Anger burned in her eyes and her mouth was twisted into a snarl.  She was young, too. Young and unbelievably stupid.

“Who are you? Where are you taking me?”

“Who the fuck do you think we are?” Steve snarled back. “We’re saving you.”

She snorted. “I didn’t need saving. And why am I supposed to trust you anyway?”

“We speak English, don’t we?”

“They spoke pretty good English too.”

Steve scowled. “You’re being taken back to a U.S. Army base to be sent home.”

She wasn’t looking at him. Little brat.

He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head up.

“Ouch! What the hell are you doing?” she hissed, struggling in the soldier’s hold.

Steve tightened his grip until she met his eyes. Then he leaned close enough to see the wavelengths in her irises. “You just risked the lives of my team members, hundreds of thousands of taxpayer dollars on equipment, and my life.” He gave her head a little shake. “I know you and whatever shitty media outlet you work for doesn’t like us and our job, but I hope you remember what we just risked to save you from your own fucking stupidity.”

He _hated_ reporters. He hated the press and everything they supposedly did for society. For what they had done to him decades ago, and for what they had done to Peter and Tony.

“Thank you,” the girl bit out.

Steve narrowed his eyes at her. “Why did they want you back so bad, huh? What are you, some pop star turned reporter?”

She threw him a glare. “Photographer turned reporter, actually. Maria Richards. Associated--“

Emory reached over and flipped the bag back over her head. “Sorry.” He shrugged. “We gotta move.”

Steve nodded as Maria sent a flurry of curses their way.

“Stay quiet,” he growled. “You make noise, you get us killed.”

They weren’t in any real danger, but it was never good to risk it.

No one ever called him a nice person anymore. When that had started happening, he didn’t know, but as he led his team through a deserted Russian town, it crossed his mind. People had once assumed him to be ignorant and adorable because of it. They smiled at him when he didn’t understand things, as though they had won some sort of game Steve hadn’t known they were playing.

Now, no one looked him in the eye for more than a few heartbeats. No one sat next to him in the mess hall and asked him about the war. Even Emory kept his mouth shut about Steve’s past.

Before, he had been an American icon, a trophy to be tarnished in the press with every mistake. To these men he was some sort of monster. He was the thing they heard whispers about in the ranks, the man who never aged and never hurt.

“Overwatch, package is secure,” Steve murmured into his comm as they advanced onto a rooftop. “Requesting extraction, over.”

His radio crackled to life in his ear. “Copy that. What is your confirmation, over?”

“Quebec-Romeo-Lima-Yankee-Yankee-Delta.”

“Roger that. Extraction on the way, ETA four minutes.”

Steve nodded to his team and they began to set up their spots on the rooftop. Snipers found places to hide among the crumbling walls and debris while other men aimed down the stairwell, heartbeat sensors flipped up to detect enemy pulses.

“Movement,” Emory hissed. “Six hundred yards, southeast. Rooftop.”

Steve glanced at the sky to see if their ride was in sight. It wasn’t.

He scurried over to Emory, keeping his head low as he peeked through a baseball-sized hole in the wall. He blinked slowly and his contacts’ HUD flicked to targeting mode. Scanning…scanning.

“Four hostiles heading our way,” Steve said as four red shapes appeared in the distance.

“I got two over here,” another soldier called.

“Any anti-aircraft?” Steve asked.

“Nope,” the soldier replied. “Looks like light weaponry, civ shit.”

“Emory, you got reading on these guys?” Steve unhooked a grenade from his belt, flicking through the options.

“Four heartbeats locked in,” Emory replied, not looking away from his scope.

“Pinned?”

There were four clicks before Emory responded. “Pinned. Street level in three, two…”

Steve twisted the pin of his grenade and pulled. He tossed it and there was a little hissing noise as the grenade’s rockets came to life. A red light blinked once and then it shot off.

A few seconds later, there was a small explosion.

Emory pulled away from his scope to give him a smile. “Quadruple kill. Nice. Six hundred yards.” He lifted a hand.

Steve rolled his eyes before reciprocating the high-five. Emory was definitely the most immature man in their group.

In some ways, Emory filled the spaces Peter had left in him. Emory was just a kid. A kid who had been raised military and who had already been in Steve’s unit (though ‘unit’ was a loose term now) for four years. Emory had given up the possibility of a normal life, of a family. Steve wasn’t sure if his supposed military experimentation had been Emory’s choice, or if he had been the only candidate to fit the bill. Sometimes Emory faltered when his brain or body moved too fast, and his tendency for self-punishment left Steve to be the one to stop his angry fists and torn knuckles from hitting anymore concrete.

“Ride’s here!” someone called and Steve turned to see an approaching hovercraft.

Steve gave Emory’s shoulder a pat and stood up before rushing over to where Maria sat with the bag still on her head, next to a soldier blowing a bubblegum bubble.

The rooftop was silent as the hovercraft was expertly guided into place—far different from the days of noisy helicopters and reactor propulsion systems.

As they hoisted Maria into the craft, Steve didn’t look at the floor where he knew a Stark Industries logo sat waiting for him.

Tony had fought so hard to take himself out of the military world, but somewhere in the last twenty years, that had changed. The money was just too good.

Or maybe Tony had done it as some way of protecting him, though he had never actually been told where Steve was or what he was doing. Even in that last conversation, Steve had kept his mouth shut.

_“I have higher clearance than the President and I could barely get ahold of you.  Would you just tell me where you’ve been? Dammit, Steve, would you suck it up and just tell me?”_

The hovercraft took off and Steve closed his eyes, drawing in a breath of chilling Russian air, his legs dangling over the city below. Emory plopped down beside him, cheeks full of what Steve assumed was a banana peanut butter sandwich. Emory kicked his feet like a little kid before offering him a bite.

Steve shook his head with a tiny smile. “No thanks.”

Emory shrugged and stuffed more sandwich into his mouth.  

He briefly wondered if Emory was going to be like him. Never aging, doomed to live in a world that would change all around him, too fast to adapt to. Every new person in his life would only have a hundred years or less before they were in the ground.

Emory was just a kid.

Steve wanted to warn him, but could never find the heart. It was too late to do anything about it anyway. And Emory would have him.

Despite what he had once thought, Steve didn’t age. What he had thought were the signs of a slower aging process had actually turned out to be the effects of a combination of stress and mental weakness. Every day in the mirror he saw the same face staring back, a body far too young for all of the time he carried on his spine.

Emory knocked him with his shoulder.

“Six hundre’ yars wiff a tracker. Fat’s gotta be a record,” Emory said around his food.

Peter could have never lived this life. Steve could never imagine allowing his son to go off to war at the age Emory had. The poor kid thought military-grade banana and peanut butter sandwiches were the best thing in the world. Steve didn’t know about Emory’s family—he never asked questions—but he could only imagine they were either dead or hated him. Or maybe they had been the ones to subject him to the needles and probes that made him into something more than human.

Emory was impressed with kill distances and PT scores. His life was war and always would be.

Steve gazed out at the bleached blue sky, absently knocking his boot heels together in the wind.

Six hundred yards. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

After she had a shower and a fresh change of clothes, Steve was pretty sure he recognized Maria Richards. He didn’t watch the news or read the paper anymore (well, the electronic paper), but he did get glances.  She was a stereotypical reporter in Steve’s mind, but he knew women like her were no longer the norm.  Most reporters listened to the government now, ever since a news broadcast outing a secret military operation in Ohio had ended with two major cities bombed off of the face of the planet.

“Can I at least get your name?” Maria asked as Steve escorted her down a hallway, firmly gripping her by the elbow. She kept looking around and it made him nervous.

“No,” he replied curtly.

Maria scowled. “I have connections. I’ll figure out who you are.”

“Good luck,” Steve snorted.

“Is this how the U.S. military treats all of its rescued hostages?”

Steve kept his gaze on the elevator doors at the end of the hall. “I’m not U.S. military. I’ve told you that.” He slid his gaze to her, eyes narrowed. “And no, this is not how rescued hostages are treated. My team doesn’t rescue hostages.”

“I can tell.”

Steve’s lip curled into a sneer. “You risked the lives—“

“Of your men, I heard,” Maria snapped. “I find it interesting though, that you aren’t military, yet you use Stark Industries tech and we’re currently in a U.S. military base. Are you sure you aren’t mistaken, _sir_?”

“I don’t buy the technology and I sure as hell don’t choose where I work,” Steve growled. “Trust me, I’m just as angry as you are. I just wasted valuable time and valuable resources rescuing a stupid little girl with a death wish.”

“I was getting information! I had a gun on me. I would have been just fine if you hadn’t—“

Steve cut her off. “Get in.” He shoved her into the elevator.

“You know what? My people are going to love hearing about this,” Maria snarled. “As soon as I’m out of here, you’ll wish you treated me with respect.”

Steve let out a snort. “I don’t treat people with respect who make unnecessarily stupid choices and risk my friends’ lives for no reason.”

“Yeah? Well your superiors might think differently when I pull all of your tech equipment.”

He fought the urge to roll his eyes. “What, Stark Industries’ shit? Please. Peter Stark would turn over everything he and his father ever created if you paid him enough.”

“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?” Maria was furious. For some reason Steve found it hilarious. She ticked just like Tony: as long as he passed off everything she said, she would get more and more angry.

Except with Tony there had been screaming and grabbing and seething.

“Looks like we’re here, Ms. Richards,” Steve said with a false smile.

“It’s _Mrs_. Richards, you prick,” Maria snapped.

The elevator doors opened and she rushed past him and into the atrium lobby. Soldiers milled around in their fatigues and officers strolled past trying to look important. Steve instinctively scanned for potential threats on the various glass walkways above them, but walked forward behind Maria, adjusting the beanie on his head. Blaine’s. The one that hadn’t been torn apart with his skull.

When he found Maria again, she was hugging tightly to a man that made Steve immediately uneasy. He was young and handsome, with blond hair and a frame that didn’t look all that powerful, but yet Steve had the feeling he should stay away.

The man and Maria stared at each other for an uncomfortably long time as the man stroked her hair. Emotions flashed across his face as though they were having a conversation: relief, distress, relief again, then disappointment. Maybe a bit of anger too.

The man looked up at him and smiled, extending a hand. “I’m her husband, Franklin Richards.”

Steve didn’t even look down. “Nice to meet you.”

Something flickered in Franklin’s eyes before he dropped his hand. “Thanks for making sure she’s safe.”

“I had it handled,” Maria muttered.

Steve had the sudden urge to flee, so powerful that he tensed. He had to leave, that was all he knew.

“Please,” Franklin said. “Would you come with us? Maria’s parents are outside. I’d feel safer if we had an escort. I’m sure Mare would too.”

Maria looked like she might slap her husband for a moment, but then her expression changed. She didn’t say anything.

“Sorry,” Steve said curtly. “I have to get back to my team.”

“It’ll just take a minute,” Franklin said. He nudged Maria.

She let out a little sigh. “Please? I really would feel safer.”

Against his better judgment, Steve nodded once.  He stayed behind as Franklin and Maria walked together through the atrium, his hand lingering near the pistol on his hip just in case this was some kind of trap. He didn’t like Franklin one bit.

They passed through security, annoying Steve all the more as all of the officers standing there saluted him as he passed. Maria glanced at him with a questioning look in her eyes, but didn’t say anything.

Maria pushed the door open and rushed out with Franklin right behind her. Steve hugged close to the glass as he followed, and stayed within a foot of the door as Maria rushed into the arms of her father, who had tears in his eyes. With advanced hearing, it wasn’t hard for Steve to hear their conversation.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” her father said. “I’m so glad.”

“It’s okay,” Maria assured him. “I’m fine, Dad.”

Franklin was staring at him. Steve didn’t meet his eyes because he had a feeling Franklin wouldn’t look away.

Maria’s mother rushed out from behind the car and wrapped Maria in her arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

Something in his head told him to run as fast as he could and escape back to the underground barracks. His body sensed something that Steve’s brain couldn’t and he knew better than to wait around for the pieces to connect.

Maria’s father looked up at him.

Too late.

All of a sudden the strange man’s face seemed to change before his eyes, though it didn’t change at all. His mind just put all of the parts together and assigned the name he had spoken thousands of times in thousands of variations.

Peter stared back at him, his face full of nothing but relief.

Steve instinctively backed up, terror flooding his bloodstream more than it ever had in his entire life.

That stupid girl he had saved was his granddaughter.

Her “connections” were Peter and Stark Industries. Her threats were real. Her father was his son. Or used to be.

Peter extended a hand. His face was so old, with graying temples and hollow eyes. He aged just like Tony had.

“You were part of the team that rescued her, weren’t you?” Peter asked.

Steve was frozen for a moment, until he noticed something.

Peter didn’t recognize him.

His own son didn’t recognize him.

Of course, Steve couldn’t really blame him. Peter hadn’t seen him in almost a half a century. Steve hadn’t aged, but his hair had darkened considerably. And he did look different—sharper eyes, sterner lips, and his beard had even caused Tony to look at him suspiciously during their last conversation.

Steve glanced at Peter’s hand, but didn’t take it.  “Yes,” he finally answered.

“I know you’re part of a task force,” Peter said in a voice that was too deep. “I’m Peter Stark.”

“From Stark Industries, I know,” Steve said, trying to keep his voice level. His heartbeat was so loud he was sure Emory was flipping out in their pod, trying to see what was going on with his microchip readings.

Peter waited another moment then dropped his hand with a chuckle. “I always forget how well trained you sons of bitches are. America’s attack dogs—you won’t even trust the hand that feeds you unless it’s pinned with the right brass.”

“Yes, sir,” Steve said, voice tight.

There wasn’t any youth left in Peter Stark. His whole body looked sapped of it, evidence of a life lived in pure stress.

Peter nodded to himself, looking Steve over. “Are you married, soldier?”

He wasn’t supposed to answer questions like that, but he shook his head.

“Good. Families get torn apart by men like you.”

He tried not to flinch.

Steve kept his eyes straight ahead, not wanting to look at his son anymore. His son who thought he was talking to a man younger than him.

For a moment he thought that Peter recognized him, the way his eyes narrowed. But then he just snorted. “My father made that mistake, you know.”

Steve looked at him, scanning Peter’s face for some hint that he understood whom he was talking to, but there was no evidence that Peter knew at all.

“With Captain America, right?” Steve tried, lip curling to a smirk. “Heard he wasn’t so perfect after all.”

“You’re damn right,” Peter snapped. Steve wanted to close his eyes to see if that would stop the peeling of his long-healed scars. Peter cleared his throat. “Captain America ruined my father’s legacy. We could have been decades ahead of where we are today if Cap would have recognized that he was slowing my father down.”

“Yes, sir,” Steve agreed with a nod.

He had slowed Tony down. He had taken him completely off the tracks because Tony had needed him to. Peter didn’t know that Tony would have literally worked himself to death if his values hadn’t been shifted and set straight. Peter had no idea how many nights Steve had spent awake, just making sure Tony stayed in bed and didn’t sneak down to the lab to finish whatever it was he was working on. Because he loved Tony too much to watch him waste away.

Peter smiled. “I’m glad to see you understand.” He patted Steve on the shoulder and Steve fought the urge to throw his hand off and break his arm like he was trained to do. “I’ll see to it that your superiors reward you for the safe return of my daughter. Keep up the good work.”

“Yes, thank you,” Franklin said from beside the car. Maria was still hugging Mary Jane, who was still sobbing.

Here was his chance to tell Peter the truth. To tell Maria that she was his granddaughter, though not by blood. That he had burned a letter from Tony Stark just a few weeks ago where Tony had written about still being in love with him.

But he knew it wouldn’t do him any good. Peter would still hate him, and his granddaughter probably did too. Tony was dead and Captain America was gone. He was just a faceless, untraceable man with dying friends except for one, maybe two who would survive with him.

So he just nodded once and backed away until he had pushed the door open to enter the atrium. Peter watched him go, but it was Franklin who had knowing eyes that Steve didn’t like.

Without so much as a goodbye, Steve adjusted his beanie and turned away, heading back for the elevator. Peter might have been happier knowing that he regretted everything he had ever done to hurt his family. Peter would have also been happy to know that Steve would spent the rest of his eternal life warring with all of the ‘what ifs’ of his marriage, of having a child. What if he had just let it go to abuse. What if it hadn’t ended up going to abuse. What if he had stuck around long enough for Tony to divorce him. What if he had waited another week, another year, another fucking lifetime to end things.

Yes, Peter would be bursting with pride and satisfaction if he knew that his once-father was going to spend centuries buried in the bones of old friends and wearing the rotting flesh of a man unable to admit he had made a mistake.

Steve actively refused to accept it. He would tell himself he had made the right decision until his brain blew apart or until Bucky finally did him the favor of slitting his throat in his sleep. He would continue living in his fictional world until someone slammed the book shut and burned the pages.

And then after his life was over, he would rot in hell for making his child hate him and turning his back on a man who had loved him to the very end.

The doors closed and Steve began to descend, swaying slightly as the elevator rocked.

That would be fine, Steve decided. That would be fine.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> -
> 
> thank you all so much for reading this series! it has been so fun to write, and i'm sad it's ending :( you guys are all amazing, and your comments have left me so overwhelmed...i hope to properly read and respond to all of them soon!
> 
> this fic started as an omegle prompt only about a sentence long (a text). i found that every time i went through this prompt, the same things kept happening. the angst was always good, but everyone always had some sort of terminal illness come into play or some other things to "force" the relationship to be mended. of course, for omegle purposes this wasn't surprising, but it always left me with the feeling that i needed a fic to go through things the as they would "actually" happen. the concept of stony always loving each other was one i wanted to keep, but not in the way that everyone wants it to happen. sometimes love just isn't enough.
> 
> one thing i wasn't expecting was all of the responses from all of you. many of you were very concerned about steve, peter, and tony's wellbeing and let your opinions be heard. i currently have 96 "unread" (i read every comment made on my works, but usually through email so ao3 recognizes them as unread) message in my inbox just from the last installment alone. i originally planned to write a big long thing about each character and blah blah blah, but it feels strange to write about it. instead, i'm just going to be extra vigilant and respond to any and all questions/thoughts on this installment. last time i wanted to write out responses to each of you, but i felt that so many things might be resolved (ish) in this installment that i didn't want to blurt it all out. but some things did reoccur that i wanted to address, so i'll do that here, and just respond to everyone's comments as well.
> 
> \- tony's drinking was not a factor in the divorce. steve may have listed it as a reason in anger, but it wasn't actually a factor. tony has been sober essentially since steve and tony married. the mouthwash thing with peter was a relapse that didn't stick, but was a moment of weakness. tony honestly didn't know how to cope, and drinking had always been his coping mechanism, but the tower was dry to keep him sober, so he went to mouthwash. he was not drinking during peter's childhood, even after the divorce. i imagine he did relapse a few times when things got bad, but tony would never allow himself to become an alcoholic again. 
> 
> \- steve filing for divorce was a "surprise," but it shouldn't have been. nor did steve do it to get an extra dig at tony. despite what that flashback may have showed, it wasn't all lovey dovey all the time. yes, steve didn't communicate the full extent of his heartache, but tony could have easily seen that steve was suffering if he had actually been looking for it. 
> 
> \- the divorce/family fallout wasn't anyone's fault. i think everyone has seen this, but the divorce and subsequent destruction of the stark-rogers family was a result of steve and tony's failures. steve's depression/PTSD caused him to make all of the wrong choices about how to live his life (isolating himself, cramming himself into the military to feel purpose again). tony failed to recognize steve's depression and unknowingly furthered it with his actions. tony was always under the impression (albeit ridiculous) that steve rogers was incapable of feeling anything that deep. tony idolized steve in many ways, and was thus ignorant to his suffering. a normal, healthy steve would have been firing right back at his insults and many times steve /acted/ the way a normal, healthy steve would, so tony just never thought to look deeper. even when he recognized steve needed help, he saw it as an easy fix. tony died without knowing the extent of steve's suffering.  
> \- everyone wants peter to get his face punched in. peter is a dickbag, but he wasn't always that way. peter doesn't blame himself for the divorce. maybe subconsciously, but he sees the divorce as steve's fault. ever since he learned that steve was the one to present the papers, he saw steve as the man who failed to attempt to make things right. peter has grown up watching his father suffer the consequences while steve seemed to be just fine. 
> 
> \- along that vein, i didn't want this fic to end with peter having any type of realization. there was no reason for him to think any differently about steve, even if tony died. though cathartic for us, such a thing isn't realistic. peter is never going to know how much steve suffered an continues to suffer and he doesn't care. bad things aren't going to happen to him because of that.
> 
> \- steve will never admit to anyone the depth of his anguish, and he won't break. he gets his emotion out by killing people and addicting himself to the military lifestyle. steve has found his "healing" and it will keep him going as long as it needs to because, as he said, war won't end.


End file.
